


a sea of red paint and blue flames

by completefailure



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, DadSchlatt, DadSchlatt AU, Dream's in jail, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Finale, Recovery, Resurrection, Snowchester, Trauma, but like make it canon compliant, ghost - Freeform, like in a ritual so not really self harm but ehh, no beta we die like L'Manberg's presidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29518671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completefailure/pseuds/completefailure
Summary: Tubbo isn't handling his near-death experience at Dream's hands too well, and everyone is starting to worry about the amount of time he's spending in the necromancy tower. Tubbo summons Schlatt's ghost to finally put some of his past behind him and heal.------He didn’t face Tubbo as he spoke, “I know you’re hurting Tubbo, but we are only trying to help you. Just- we’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” In a heartbeat, he had slipped through the doorway and the room was left oddly silent and empty in his absence.Tubbo stared as the door quietly swung shut across from him, across a sea of curling red lines. His hands shook slightly as he held the small dagger and tried not to think about how much the red paint covering the floors and walls looked like blood. But it wasn’t blood he chastised himself. Just paint. He shook his head trying to rid himself of unbidden memories.It didn’t matter.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 5
Kudos: 160





	a sea of red paint and blue flames

**Author's Note:**

> tw: blood, referenced underage drinking, implied past abuse, cutting (in a ritual), mild swearing, referenced alcoholism
> 
> comment if I missed any trigger warnings, and if you catch any grammar errors. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tubbo’s fingers were stiff and frozen, the paint allowing the chilled air to cling to them. He redipped his fingers in the paint pot and continued to drag his fingertips along the stone floor, painting precise yet intricate swirls and symbols.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat, he ignored them.

“Tubbo?”

He didn’t turn to acknowledge Ranboo, stood worrying in the doorway to the tower. He glanced back at his notes and continued painting.

“Jack told me you were acting weird.” Ranboo paused, stepping closer to the small young man kneeling on the floor, “Wanna talk about it?”

Tubbo didn’t answer. He finished off a line and stood abruptly. Still, without acknowledging Ranboo he strode over to a windowsill and grabbed a towel to wipe off the paint. The frozen arctic wind of Snowchester bit at his exposed cheek from the hole in the wall. The Necromancy Tower wasn’t sealed for a reason, but still, the gaps in the walls left the place frigid, and Tubbo wished for the warm fire of his home, just meters away. 

Finally, after a painfully long silence spent staring out over the icy bay, he turned toward Ranboo. The enderman hybrid was tall and lanky and stood frowning at the red paint covering the stone floor and walls of the tower. 

“Not really Ranboo.” 

The taller young man looked up startled. “Huh?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.” Tubbo repeated. 

“Oh” Ranboo seemed at a sudden loss for words. The easy conversations he and Tubbo normally shared seemed to have frozen in the tense air of this tower. With a sudden burst of confidence, he said, “Are you trying to bring Schlatt back?” He expected Tubbo to look taken aback, but instead, the young man just sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“No.” he sighed again, turning away and walking over to the abandoned notebook and paint pot. “Not back.”

“But you are trying to talk to him? Aren’t you?”

Tubbo’s silence was more than enough of an answer. 

Ranboo walked over to his friend and moved to put a hand on his shoulder, but the attempt at comfort was shrugged off. Tubbo grabbed the materials from the floor and turned away again to store them in a chest.

“Why?”

Tubbo was quiet for another moment, mulling over his words, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does Tubbo, please.” Ranboo was half pleading, “You’re worrying Jack and I half to death, even Tommy’s concerned. It’s been nearly two weeks since Dream was locked up, you have to talk to someone.”

Tubbo grit his teeth at that. He wasn’t interested in talking to Ranboo or Jack or Tommy. They couldn’t understand. No one could understand. 

“Please, Tubbo--”

“I’m busy Ranboo.” It was blunt. He dug around in the chest for soul sand and flint and steel. 

“Busy what? Trying to talk to ghosts. I wasn’t around, but nobody has anything good to say about that old goat.”

“Ram.” Tubbo muttered.

Ranboo’s voice was becoming more exacerbated, “He executed you!” 

That touched a nerve.

“You think I don’t remember, Ranboo!” Tubbo had whirled on the young man, small dagger and flint and steel in hand. His voice matched his fury. 

Ranboo’s mouth gaped for a second then closed with a sigh. He shook his head slightly, taken aback at Tubbo’s anger. “Sorry” was all he muttered as he made his way toward the door.

The tall lanky hybrid stopped before ducking through the doorway, hand poised to open the door. He didn’t face Tubbo as he spoke, “I know you’re hurting Tubbo, but we are only trying to help you. Just- we’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” In a heartbeat, he had slipped through the doorway and the room was left oddly silent and empty in his absence. 

Tubbo stared as the door quietly swung shut across from him, across a sea of curling red lines. His hands shook slightly as he held the small dagger and tried not to think about how much the red paint covering the floors and walls looked like blood. But it wasn’t blood he chastised himself. Just paint. He shook his head trying to rid himself of unbidden memories. 

It didn’t matter. He grit his teeth. None of it mattered. Ranboo, Tommy, Jack, they couldn’t understand. 

Tubbo carefully stepped over the nearly dry paint and lit the soul sand on fire in the center of the circle. He steeled his breath for a moment as the blue flames lit up the darkening room. The sun was creeping below the horizon and the night was getting even chillier. He buried his hands in the warm fluffy fur lined pockets of his coat and briefly considered what he was doing. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn’t back out now. He needed to do this. He needed the closure. 

He knelt in front of the fire and took a deep breath. He had memorized the prayer, but was still tempted to return to the chest and grab the notebook. But no, he was stalling. He took a deep breath and began. 

The words tumbled from his mouth in a foriegn tongue. There was power in his words, raw and untapped. He had built this tower precisely for that power. It was a rush and in moments like this with his voice crescendoing in the empty stone tower filling it with raw buzzing life, he understood Wilbur’s love for TNT and Techno’s lust for blood. He gripped the dagger and pushed his left sleeve up, before quickly sliding the blade across his forearm, just enough to draw a few dribbles of blood, that dropped in the blue flames below. Suddenly a howl filled the tower, not coming from any distinguishable source. The flames roared up in Tubbo’s face flashing green and purple, blues and reds. 

He leapt backward, scrambling toward the far wall, and took stock of himself. He seemed fine, the flames hadn’t burnt him at all. Still the flames leapt higher and higher, flashing color after color before settling on a bright ruby red. The howling didn’t cease, until suddenly it did, like he had been thrust into a vacuum and all the sound sucked away. The lack of noise made his ears ache. 

He pressed his back against the stone wall, squinting his eyes as the fire glowed lighter and lighter. It began glowing so bright he was forced to throw his arm in front of his face.When the light died down, he refocused on the center of the room. The swirling lines of red paint across the floor had lit with a glowing blue flame and in the center of it all stood Schlatt.

He looked so different than he had on that last day in the camarvan, suit in shambles, forehead dripping with sweat, and clutching at his chest. Instead, Schlatt stood tall, in a cleanly pressed black suit and red tie, hair tousled in the some how neatly stylish way he had always done it during the days of Manberg. His horns curled gleaming black and hung with glittering gold jewelry. His hands were adorned with matching rings and Tubbo was reminded of how he had looked at the festival, at the height of his power.. 

Tubbo stepped away from the wall, and attempted to square his shoulder and stand tall. Part of him wanted to shrink back and run at the sight of Schlatt, painful memories, fireworks and shouts. The other part was winning though, the part that had fought in two wars, been president of a whole country, and faced down his own death with stoic pride. Schlatt was nothing but a ghost and he had long stopped being afraid of shadows. 

“Schlatt.” his voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t quite cold either. It was a monotonous command of the air around him. Quackity had called it his “Presidential voice”, and maybe that was right, like a child’s imitation of Schlatt. 

Schlatt had turned to appraise the young man, tucking his hands neatly in his dress pants’ pockets. Tubbo didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on Tubbo’s horns, which had grown significantly since Schlatt had died, and now curled around his ears, much like the man himself. 

“Well, I’ll be honest kid,” he huffed halfway between a laugh and a sigh, “of all the people to summon me, I didn’t expect it to be you. I’m surprised.”

“You really shouldn’t be.” Tubbo replied coolly. He was trying his damndest to maintain his composure. 

“Oh.” Schlatt chuckled, “and why’s that?”

Tubbo felt like his heart was trying to claw its way up his throat. He couldn’t look at Schlatt anymore. He turned to face a window, gazed at the ice and snow, and reminded himself that this was his tower, his country, his home, that he had built it with his own two hands. Schlatt was nobody here, just a memory of a country long dead. He didn’t need it’s ghost lingering over him any longer.

“I was always the forgiving type.” Tubbo let out a dry laugh and he turned back to Schlatt who had been carefully inspecting the kid. “Maybe that’s why I keep getting fucked over in the end.”

Schlatt’s eyes had widened slightly at the language, but didn’t let any other sign of shock show.

“So what happened that could have prompted this little,” he searched for a moment, “bout of self reflection?”

Tubbo actually laughed, but it sounded more hollow than either party cared to admit. “A lot Schlatt. A lot. But most recently it was nearly being murdered by Dream.”

Schlatt didn’t speak, as Tubbo sat on the chest and leaned his back against the wall with a huff. He was still sizing the kid up. Something was different about the way he carried himself. He didn’t curl in on himself the way he had in the days of Manberg, there was stubborn pride in the set of his shoulders. 

They stayed in that silence for a moment, before Schlatt broke, “Care to elaborate or are you just going to make me sit here all night?”

“You know it’s funny. When you had Techno execute me, I had two lives left,” Tubbo ran a mindless finger along the scarred skin on his cheek. He knew it stretched down his neck and across his chest and shoulder, knew from nights spent staring at it in the mirror, willing it to disappear. Schlatt followed his hand, but didn’t interrupt as Tubbo continued, “and yet I still stood there and begged. Begged for my life. Cried. Prayed Wilbur or Tommy would show up and save me, but”

Tubbo trailed off for a second. How much did he want to tell Schlatt? Nothing? Everything?

No, he needed Schlatt to see this. Schlatt would never apologize, but he could still be forced to look his mistakes in the eye and see them.

“But,” he took a shuddering breath, “when Dream held an axe to my neck and told me to say my last goodbyes to Tommy, I wasn’t even scared. I wasn’t sad, or upset. I was just exhausted.”

Schlatt was in desperate need of a cigarette. 

“If you were expecting comfort, kid, I think you summoned the wrong person.”

Tubbo snorted again. “Ya know Quackity wanted to bring you back. Like back back”

“Why the fuck would he want to do that?”

“Heart break. Insanity. How should I know? He went a little off the deep end after you died. He- we did a lot of bad things, but uh,” Tubbo was studying his muddy boots intently, anything to not look at Schlatt, “Last I heard he was talking about building Las Vegas. Some kind of get rich scheme.”

“That sounds more like him.”

They lapsed into silence again. 

“Manberg, wasn’t all bad was it?” This time Tubbo had broken the silence. There was a softness in his voice that reminded him how very young he felt, and he silently chastised himself for it. 

“Define ‘all bad’ kid.” Schlatt was studying the blue flames around him, reaching gently to find they singed his fingertips.

There had been good times too, evenings when Schlatt, Quackity, Tubbo, and Fundy had sat on the floor of the White House sipping bourbon and telling stories till the sun rose. No one minded Tubbo was too young. They had just laughed and smiled, but nights like that never lasted long. Schlatt’s good spells always lapsed into shouts and bruises. 

“You weren’t a very good father.”

Schlatt barked out a laugh at that, returning his focus to Tubbo. “No. No, I don’t suppose I was.”

Tubbo rubbed at his face. Where was he going with this? His voice was still soft, “You’re stuck here until sunrise or I release you,” he gestured loosely to the flames, “you can’t walk through those either. Sorry, safety precautions.”

Schlatt made an ‘ahh’ noise of understanding, “Scared I was going to jump at ya,” he made a joking lunge toward Tubbo, who flinched back slightly.

“Frankly, given our history, yes.”

Schlatt didn’t respond, only flashed a quick look between annoyance and discomfort.

Not a very good father, Tubbo thought.

“So, what? Are we just going to sit here quietly till sunrise then?” Schlatt sounded irritated, “Sounds boring.”

“What do you propose then?” Tubbo’s voice was monotone again. 

“I don’t fuckin know. You summoned me kid.” Schlatt was gesturing with his hands and had begun pacing around the small circle of blue flames he was contained in.

“Then, our options are talk or sit here quietly, bored and frustrated.” Tubbo found a strange enjoyment in Schlatt’s obvious discomfort. He had never been particularly vengeful or cruel, but it was oddly funny watching the ram floundering out of his element. 

“Oh no does wittle Tubbster wanna talk out his feelings?” Schlatt’s voice was mocking.

“No.”

Schlatt threw his hands up in defeat. He wasn’t getting the rise out of Tubbo he had been hoping for. 

“What do we talk about then? I’m dead, not much goin on there.”

“Well I’m not. Aren’t you curious what’s happened to everyone?”

Schlatt wasn’t getting anywhere with his pacing, and he quickly schooled his frustration. Fine, if he was stuck here, he would play along. 

“Suppose you’re going to tell me then.”

“You’d find it interesting.”

“Why’s that?”

“Turns out I am every bit ‘my father’s son’” Tubbo’s voice was tired, but he said the last bit in a mocking voice, echoing the words that had haunted his presidency.

“Oh?”

So, he told Schlatt about being president and Tommy burning George’s house. He told him about trying to bargain for his best friend's safety, and about Tommy screwing it all up. He told him about Tommy’s exile and the Butcher Army, how Quackity and Fundy had developed such a blood lust and Tubbo had just not cared enough to stop them. He told him about Philza’s house arrest, and Techno’s botched execution. Told him about finding Logstedshire a crater and the pillar to the clouds. He told him about Tommy and Techno, about the community house, and Doomsday. How he had finally rebuilt in Snowchester, but Dream could never just let them be, and Tubbo had stood in that huge haunting cavern and accepted his own death. 

Tubbo told it like a cold impartial list of events. He held it at an arm's length like he hadn’t lived it, because if he could distance himself enough from it, well, then it’s like a story, that somebody else, anybody else, anyone not him had lived. 

“So that’s it then?”

“Pretty much.” 

“Well damn kid,” Schlatt had sat down at some point during the story, “from the way you were talking, I had thought you had actually done something bad.”

Tubbo balked at that, “I exiled Tommy.”

“Well yeah, but he didn’t exactly give you a choice.”

“Philza under house arrest. Techno executed?!”

“Known terrorist, and conspiring with a known terrorist. Look, if what you want is me to commiserate, tell you ‘boo who you’re a bad person’ sorry but you’re shit outta luck. You may not have handled it the best. You let yourself get pushed around a bit, but like who can blame you. You’re what? 17? Barely. You were surrounded by a bunch of morons vying for their own self interests, and you did your best. It’s shit luck how it all worked out, but sometimes even the best people get dealt a bad hand.

“Really it’s a miracle you didn’t turn out more like me. I would have exiled Tommy off the bat and probably executed Phil along side Techno just for good measure. Never was a fan of treasonous bastards.”

Oh the irony in that. Tubbo actually laughed, like full-body, head-thrown-back laughed. 

“Yeah Schlatt, believe me I know.”

Schlatt snorted.

They lapsed into silence again. 

Schlatt was never kind, but he had this brutal bluntness that occasionally came close. Tubbo hated him, and he didn’t, and it was as complicated a mess of feelings as Schlatt was a complicated mess of a person.

Schlatt was his dad and he wasn’t. He was a monster and he wasn’t. He was a lot of things and Tubbo kind of supposed he was too. 

“Snowchester then? How’s that working out?” 

“Pretty good. No government. More of a commune, like a safe haven. And we’ve got nukes.”

Schlatt whistled, “Damn, nukes. Wow. Had me worried you had gone all peace, love, and happiness on me there kiddo.”

“Nah. First, they were meant to be insurance against Dream. Sort of a, you hit us, we absolutely decimate your entire SMP thing, but with him in jail, they’re mostly just for protection.”

Schlatt nodded. “Who else is living out here then?”

“Jack Manifold, Foolish, and Slimecicle, they uh joined recently.”

“Ay Charlie’s living out here with you all?”

Tubbo laughed, “Yeah sort of. His summer home? I think that’s what he called.”

“Good for him. No Tommy?”

Tubbo frowned, “No, he’s uh,” He took a deep breath, “I don’t think he’s handling any of this any better than I am.”

“Ahh, so he’s still a whiny brat then?”

“No!” Tubbo was quick to his friends' defence, “He’s just- exile was hard for him and I’m not entirely sure he’s forgiven me for it all.”

Schlatt nodded. 

“So why’d you bring me back then kid?”

“Huh?”

“Seems to me like you’ve got an awful lot on your plate right now anyway. Friends who need you and shit, but instead you’re here talking to your dear old dad’s ghost.”

Tubbo scrunched up his nose looking at Schlatt.

“So why?”

Tubbo couldn’t articulate the emotions that had led him to this moment. He just knew he was hurting and he didn’t know how to stop. 

Maybe it was self destructive. Because Schlatt’s particular brand of pain had been familiar, so unlike this hollowness and regret that seemed to haunt his chest now.

Maybe it was revenge. Some sort of vindictive rage, wanting to make Schlatt pay for what he had done. 

Maybe he was just a dumb kid still holding on to the hope that his estranged father, might turn out to be half decent dad when he needed him.

But then he saw Schlatt standing on that stage ordering his friend's exile, saw his face twisted with anger as Tubbo fled to hide in a closet, saw him hurling a bottle of whiskey that exploded into a thousand tiny shining fragments of light, like the fireworks that still burned his eyes and tore at his skin. And he wondered if he had looked like Schlatt that day, standing in the rain, horns shiny and as stark black against the sky as the obsidian walls he stood on, as he had ordered Dream to escort Tommy out of his country. 

He scrubbed at his face with his hands like he could rub the tiredness and cold way.

“I don’t know-- Because ever since you and Wilbur died everything got complicated, and I just hoped it would help me, I don’t know, move on, I guess?”

Suddenly, for a single unhinged moment he felt like crying. Bursting into tears right there on the stone floors of the tower in front of Schlatt. But he didn’t. Instead he glanced out at the sky. The sun still wouldn’t be up for hours, but he was tired and ready to be done with Schlatt once and for all. 

“So did it then?” Schlatt’s voice wasn’t kind, but it was uncharacteristically genuine. 

“I don’t know.” It was soft but honest, and Schlatt just nodded. 

“I should have left you behind when I buried you at that funeral,” Tubbo said.

“Probably, but we don’t always get to choose what ghosts still haunt us.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tubbo trailed off.

He had burned his Presidential suit, back when he had first built Snowchester, and he had quite literally built this very tower on it’s ashes. He wished he could do that with the whole damn SMP. Burn down the bad memories and build something better on top of it. Build something he could protect. 

But he wouldn’t. He had Snowchester and that was enough. 

“I wish you hadn’t died.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because then one of us could have killed you, instead of your own stupid drinking”

Schlatt laughed. “Fair.”

Tubbo laughed with him and suddenly his chest felt a bit lighter. It was a stupid sentiment. He wouldn’t have killed Schlatt anyway. He wasn’t cruel or vengeful. He was just 17 and very very tired of wars. But now he had Jack and Ranboo and Snowchester. Tommy was building a hotel, and just maybe he could leave his ghosts in the past. He could call this place his home and protect it better than he ever could L’Manberg.

“I’ll release you then.” Tubbo stood and walked to the Northwest corner of the room. He placed his hand on a painted symbol smearing it. The flames dimmed slightly.

“So that’s that then?”

“Basically.” Tubbo walked to the next corner, “unless you’re eager to stay.”

“Not particularly.” Schlatt sounded nonchalant. 

Tubbo walked to the next corner and repeated. Finally, at the last corner he stopped.

“How would you feel if one of us brought you back?”

Schlatt frowned, “and why would you do that?”

Tubbo looked at him, really looked, and noted all the things he still hated in the man, and how many of them he still saw in himself, but he could live with that.

“Because we can now. We’re talking about bringing Wilbur back. Dream knows how, and…” he trailed off before finishing softly, “well I always was the forgiving type.”

Schlatt seemed to think for a second, “Do what you want kid, but I make no promises about being good if I do come back.” There was the hint of a joke in there.

“Nah,” Tubbo smiled, “wouldn’t ask for it, but capitalism seems to be the newest trend and I think you’d fit right in.”

Schlatt was never kind, but as Tubbo moved to smear the last sigil he said, “You’re a good kid, Tubbo.”

It wasn’t an apology and it wasn’t a goodbye, but it was better than what they had left between them before, a million unsaid words and bitterness. 

Tubbo’s hand hovered for a second, before he whispered “Thanks.” and smeared the last sigil.

The blue flames extinguished and when Tubbo turned back Schlatt was gone. The Tower was cold and empty. 

He would clean up tomorrow. 

Tonight, he shut the tower door behind him and breathed in the cold wintery air. Snowchester was beautiful at night. He could see the full moon reflecting in the bay and a fresh layer of snow had fallen while he was busy. His cabin lights glowed warmly as he approached it, the snow crunching under his feet. 

Through the door he could hear Ranboo and Jack inside and he smiled. Tubbo had his home and his family and it was messy and flawed, but it was still his. He had built it with his own two hands and he would protect it. Tommy might still hate him and Jack was still suspicious. Ranboo’s memory was spottier than ever, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Nikki, Fundy, or Quackity. They were all a little messed up and hurting, but they were trying. 

It wasn’t perfect, but he could work with that.


End file.
